


be there to hold my hand

by deathsweetqueen



Series: be there to hold my hand [1]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Angst, Bottom Tony Stark, Childhood Friends, Childhood Sweethearts, Consensual Underage Sex Involving Two Teenagers, Daemon Touching, Daemons, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt Bruce Wayne, Hurt Tony Stark, Jealous Bruce Wayne, M/M, Teenage Drama, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Top Bruce Wayne, Young Bruce Wayne, Young Tony Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-05 23:43:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17334587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathsweetqueen/pseuds/deathsweetqueen
Summary: Tony meets Bruce Wayne for the very first time when he’s four years old. He’s standing, all prim and proper, in his very nice tux, just a little behind his mother’s leg, while his father looms beside him, talking to someone he deems important. Sahar drapes her tail over Tony’s neck, lending him her heat. His mother’s daemon, Callianessa, stares at him, reproachfully, while his mother’s back is turned. He sticks his tongue out at her and she huffs, turning away.or alternatively, where Tony and Bruce meet each other as kids, and it changes the course of history.





	be there to hold my hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [genderfluid_pigeon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/genderfluid_pigeon/gifts).



> So, here is the first part of my Marvel Trumps Hate gift for Pige, who asked for a winterironbat daemon au. Thank you so much for your generous donation, babe. This part covers how the ironbat happened, as well as the lead-up to Bruce becoming Batman. 
> 
> I'd really like to thank [BoovPerson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoovPerson) for betaing this fic for me. You're a gem, darling!
> 
> If anyone's curious, Tony's daemon is a European pine marten, and Bruce's daemon is a Costa's hummingbird.
> 
> This verse will bring together the MCU and the Nolanverse Batman movies, because Christian Bale is my favourite live-action Batman. 
> 
> Warning: here, when I say there's consensual underage sex, both Bruce and Tony are 16 and are consenting to have sex with each other. Now, this is legal where I live, and I imagine it's legal for a lot of people, but I appreciate that there are people who don't want to read such scenes and fair enough. It's a very small scene in the grand scheme of the fic.

Tony meets Bruce Wayne for the very first time when he’s four years old. He’s standing, all prim and proper, in his very nice tux, just a little behind his mother’s leg, while his father looms beside him, talking to someone he deems important. Sahar drapes her tail over Tony’s neck, lending him her heat. His mother’s daemon, Callianessa, stares at him, reproachfully, while his mother’s back is turned. He sticks his tongue out at her and she huffs, turning away.

“We might be able to go home soon,” Sahar offers, helpfully.

“Not as soon as I’d like to go,” Tony mutters, dully.

“Howard said you had to, because there were a lot of important people here and you needed to meet them,” Sahar points out.

“There are _always_ important people everywhere we go, Sahar,” Tony complains, wanting desperately to stamp his foot. “That doesn’t make it _less_ boring.”

Sahar glowers at him from his shoulder. “Well, sulking about it won’t make things easier or make tonight go quicker.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Why are you always on _his_ side?”

Sahar runs the pad of her foot across the back of his neck. “Tony.” Her voice gentles. “I’m always on _your_ side, silly.”

“Ah, Thomas. Good to see you!”

Tony looks up to see a youngish man with short dark hair and laugh lines approaching them, followed by a blonde woman in decadent fur.

“Howard,” the man greets his father pleasantly enough, shaking his hand with a firm grip that Tony already knows that his father appreciates. “It’s good to see you too.”

His mother greets the woman beside Thomas kindly as well, leaning over and hugging her.

“Hello, Martha. It’s been too long.”

“It has, Maria. I’m just glad we’re all together again.”

There’s a boy hiding behind Martha’s leg, the same age as him, with a hummingbird nestled in the locks of his dark hair.

“I don’t think our boys have even met properly,” his mother gushes. “They were so young the last time we saw each other.”

Maria nudges him, gently. “Come, Tony, meet Bruce.”

Tony first looks at him, seeing her encouraging smile, and turns to the boy – Bruce; he holds out his hand, just like his father taught him.

“Hello,” he says, politely. “My name is Anthony Edward Stark.”

Bruce smiles, tentatively, at him and takes his hand with a firm grip. “Hullo, I’m Bruce. Bruce Wayne.”

“Nice to meet you,” Tony says, quietly.

“I like your daemon,” Bruce declares. “What’s her name?”

“Sahar,” Tony answers, immediately, his hand coming up to scratch at her fur, her weight heavy but comforting on his neck. “She’s a European pine marten; or, at least, she’s one now. She changes sometimes.” He shrugs. “What’s your daemon called?”

“Berengaria,” Bruce replies. “She’s a Costa’s hummingbird.”

Berengaria patters her wings hard, as if to say hello.

Tony waves.

“Would you look at them, Maria?” Martha jokes. “Already fast friends.”

Maria laughs. “Just like us, wouldn’t you say?”

Tony’s a little surprised when Bruce openly rolls his eyes at his mother.

“Dad, Mr Stark, Tony and I are gonna look for some food. Is that okay?” he asks, impatiently.

Tony bites his lip, a noise of surprise on the tip of his tongue, as he waits with the air caught in his lungs as he waits for Thomas and Howard’s replies. Thomas smiles down at his son, unbearably soft, but gives his okay. Howard, on the other hand, is briefly frustrated by the interruption but delivers his agreement in a clipped tone. He doesn’t spare the children a second glance before he returns to shop talk with Thomas. 

To his credit, Tony also doesn’t second-guess his father’s agreement and gleefully runs away with Bruce, when the other boy reaches across the empty air between them and grabs his hand like it’s the easiest thing in the world for him to do.

His heart pounds against his lungs, but he quickly finds that he doesn’t mind at all.

* * *

The quick friendship that Tony forms with Bruce at that one gala spawns a dozen outings and shared vacations between the two families.

Even Howard’s on his best behaviour around the Waynes, and Tony gets to spend the whole _day_ playing with Bruce, who, despite being the coolest person Tony has ever met in his whole, entire life, doesn’t seem to have any other friends either.

It’s okay, though, because Tony’s there now, and all they need is each other.

Sahar and Berengaria become fast friends too, the latter opting to survey their humans from a neat little perch she makes for herself in Sahar’s fur, just over her neck.

Today, they’re busy running around the expanse of the Waynes’ garden, while Alfred and Jarvis look on from the veranda, sipping on hot tea as British butlers do. They’re playing Marco Polo and Tony is it, his eyes blindfolded with Jarvis’ handkerchief, so he won’t know anything but Bruce’s voice, who urges him closer and closer. He hears an aborted scream and a crash and pulls off the handkerchief quickly, eyes going wide like a deer caught in headlights when he sees the boarded-up well in the corner of the backyard hollowed out.

Tony runs like his life depends on it and his small body hits the stones with a thwack.

“Bruce,” he shouts into the black void. “BRUCE!”

There’s no answer.

Tears sting at his eyes, and he runs back the way he came. His lungs burn and his legs hurt but he doesn’t stop until he’s doubling over in front of Alfred and Jarvis.

“Bruce-Bruce, he fell,” he pants out, clutching at his thighs.

Alfred and Jarvis’ faces contort with fear and concern. Alfred rushes back into the house, shouting for _Master Wayne_ , while Jarvis clutches Tony to him tightly, letting the boy bury his face in his waistcoat to hide his tears. Sahar wraps her tail around Tony’s neck, nuzzling into his hair.

“It’s okay, Master Anthony,” Jarvis soothes, running worn fingers through Tony’s hair, carefully dodging Sahar’s curled-up warm body. “Alfred will fetch Master Wayne, and everything will be okay.”

Thomas and Martha rush out, their hair out of place and harried-looking, followed by Alfred, Howard and Maria.

“What-what happened?” Martha exclaims, while Thomas, Alfred and Howard rush to the well.

Tony pulls away from Jarvis, aware of just how thick and damp and raw his eyes are.

“We,” he hiccups. “We were playing Marco Polo, and I was it, and I heard a scream. When I took off the blindfold, Bruce was gone, and the boards on top of the well were broken.”

Maria softens and draws Tony into her arms. “Oh, _mijo_ , everything’s going to be fine. You’ll see.”

Between the three of them, Thomas, Alfred and Howard rig up a sort of pulley system that lowers Thomas into the well, so that he can carry Bruce out of the well. When Tony first gets a glimpse of him, he’s all muddy and the dirt is caked into his fingertips. Berengaria, in solidarity, has all of her feathers in a kerfuffle, burrowing herself into the rat’s nest that Bruce’s hair has become.

Thomas carries Bruce past Tony, but Bruce weakly tugs on his father’s sleeve, forcing him to stop.

“Tony,” Bruce slurs.

Tony takes a step forward. “Bruce?” he calls out, hopefully.

A limp hand reaches out and grips Tony’s hand, and something heavy and made of stone drops into his palm.

“Found it,” Bruce explains, his voice dazed. “Wanted you to have it.”

Thomas gives Tony a gentle look, one that he would never have gotten from Howard.

“He’ll be fine, Tony. He’s just got a broken arm,” Thomas soothes.

Tony nods, stiffly, barely biting back the urge to start sobbing all over again.

Once Thomas, Bruce, Martha, Alfred, Howard and Maria re-enter Wayne Manor, Jarvis wraps an arm around Tony’s shoulders, leading him up the steps after them.

Tony opens his palm to reveal an old arrowhead, stained with grime but still somehow well-defined. He holds it to his chest, just for a moment, before slipping into his pocket, a heavy, comforting weight against his hip, where it will reside for many more years to come.

* * *

“Master Anthony?”

Tony looks up from the robot he was fiddling with, while Sahar lounges in his lap. “Yes, Jarvis?”

Jarvis hovers in the doorway, biting his mouth raw, his hand clenching around empty air at his side. “Master Anthony, I’m afraid I must tell you something.”

Tony jumps to his feet. “What is it, Jarvis?”

Jarvis sighs and holds an arm out, as he approaches Tony’s bed, taking a seat on the edge. “Come here, young sir.”

Tony follows like a little duckling, climbing onto the bed beside Jarvis. “What’s wrong, Jarvis? You sound weird?” he asks, concerned.

Jarvis sighs. “It appears there was a bit of an accident last night,” he begins, slowly, his voice gentling.

Tony’s pulse turns into a heavy thud. “What are you talking about, Jarvis?” he asks, bravely.

Jarvis squeezes Tony’s shoulder. “Apparently, last night, the Waynes went to an opera, and as they were leaving, they were accosted by a thief in the alley.”

“Oh, no,” Tony exclaims, distressed, Sahar nipping at his ear. “Are they okay? Is Bruce okay?”

“Master Bruce is fine, young sir,” Jarvis soothes, running a hand across Tony’s hair. “But, unfortunately…” Jarvis hesitates. The knot in Tony’s throat and chest tightens. “It would seem that the thief shot Mr and Mrs Wayne. I’m afraid they passed away last night.”

Tears sting at Tony’s eyes, his hands tightening around his slacks. He hangs his head and sniffles. “And Bruce? Is he okay?”

“Oh, young sir, I don’t think he’s doing so well.”

Tony looks at Jarvis, helplessly. “Can we go and see him? I want to make sure he’s alright.”

Jarvis softens. “Actually, your mother and father asked me to tell you what happened. We’ve been informed of the funeral, and I think it would be good if you came along as well. You might be able to lend some comfort to young Bruce.”

Tony nods, insistently. “Yeah, I want to come. Will mum and dad let me?”

“I’m sure they will.” Jarvis slides off the bed and holds an arm out for Tony to curl underneath. “Now, shall we start packing? I’m sure we’ll be leaving soon.”

* * *

“Ah, Mr Stark, Mrs Stark, young master Tony, please, come in.” Alfred holds open the door for them. “It’s a shame I have to invite you in on such a day.”

Howard claps a hand on Alfred’s shoulder. “It’s a shame we have to come here on such a day too, Alfred. We’re so sorry for your loss.”

Maria nods, kissing Alfred on his weathered cheeks. “We couldn’t believe what we were seeing on television. We thought it was a horrible dream, and for Bruce to see it all.” She clucks her tongue. “That’s not something anyone, let alone a child, should have to see,” she says, grimly.

Tony looks up at Alfred, biting his mouth raw. “Hi, Alfred.” He looks around. “Where’s Bruce? Can I see him?”

“Tony,” Howard barks. He looks at Alfred, apologetically. “Sorry about that, Alfred. He should be able to read the room better. He knows how to mind his damn manners.” He glares down at Tony.

Tony curls in on himself, looking down at his feet.

“It’s quite alright, Mr Stark,” Alfred interjects, sending Tony a warm look. “Master Bruce is just in his room. I think he might appreciate the company today, if you wouldn’t mind, young sir.”

Tony nods. Before he goes, he throws his arms around Alfred’s thin middle. “I’m really sorry, Alfred,” he says, his voice muffled in Alfred’s waistcoat. “I’m gonna miss them too.”

Alfred runs a hand over his hair, so gentle. “Thank you very much, young sir,” he says, thickly. “Both Master Bruce and I are so very happy that you’re here.”

Tony clutches at him once before releasing him, giving Jarvis and Maria an uncertain look. He’s filled with a strange, brave rush when Jarvis gives him an encouraging smile and Maria runs her fingers through his hair just for a moment. He nods, running away without a second glance at his father, who hadn’t bothered to do or say anything beyond finish off half a bottle of whiskey by himself on the jet. He climbs up the giant marble-lined staircase, through the winding corridors until he finds Bruce’s bedroom.

He knocks on the door, springing back onto his heels, while he waits with barely-held patience.

“Stop fidgeting so much,” Sahar scolds.

“I can’t help myself,” Tony hisses right back.

Sahar huffs as much as a pine marten can huff. “Well, you’re making my perch very uncomfortable, so _stop_.”

“Sorry, princess,” he says, snidely, and muffles a yelp when she nips his ear in response.

There’s silence on the other end of the door.

He knocks again.

“Bruce?” he calls out. “Bruce, can I come in?”

There’s still no answer.

Tony bites his lip, before squaring his shoulders. He turns the knob, opening the door just a sliver to let light through and slips inside.

“Bruce?” he calls out again.

There’s a lump under the blankets on the bed, shaking.

Something clenches in his chest. He pads across the carpet, stopping at the edge of the mattress. He places a palm flat onto the surface and stretches it across the quilt.

The lump turns around and Bruce’s head peeks out over the blankets, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, face pale like paper.

“Oh, Bruce,” he says, in a low, rushed voice.

Berengaria is resting in the little dip between Bruce’s pillow and the headboard of the bed, trilling loudly when she spots Tony hovering on the other side of the bed. Tony gives her a wretched look before crawling inside the bed, under the blankets, so that he can sidle up to Bruce, their fingers barely grazing.

“I’m so sorry, Bruce,” Tony whispers.

“I know,” Bruce says, miserably. “Me too.”

Tony curls in closer and wraps his arms around Bruce’s huddled, trembling form, resting his chin on the bony curve of Bruce’s shoulder. The collar of his shirt grows damp and Tony tightens his grip on Bruce, wishing he were able to pull Bruce inside him, hold him against his bones and protect him from the ugly world his friend had now experienced first-hand.

“I want my parents back, Tony.”

“I know.” Tony’s lungs constrict. “I miss them too.”

“It’s my fault.”

Tony jolts a little. “What-what are you talking about?”

“We left the opera because I got scared,” Bruce says, dully, his eyes dazed. “If I hadn’t got scared, they’d still be alive. It’s my fault they’re dead.”

“Bruce,” Tony begins, pathetically earnest, his hands shaking. “Bruce, that’s not true. That can’t be true-”

“It is,” Bruce says, firmly. “It’s my fault.”

“Bruce…”

Tony doesn’t know what to say. Being able to make circuit boards and guns and robots and engines from scratch are useless when trying to explain to your best friend that their parents’ deaths weren’t his fault.

Bruce shakes his head. “People are gonna start coming for the funeral,” he mutters. “I think I need to start getting ready.”

Tony nods, a little stunted.

Bruce looks at him, suddenly, so unbearably soft. “Thanks for coming,” he whispers. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

Tony shrugs, helplessly. “I couldn’t _not_ come,” he says, honestly.

He’s eight years old and he sees more than anyone else in this world will ever see and the universe comes together for him in a way that he doubts it comes together for anyone else, but Bruce Wayne is his best friend in the whole wide world and when Jarvis told him the news, the only thing he wanted to do was to wrap his arms around Bruce and make the world a little better for him.

Where else would he be, if not here?

“How’s your dad?” Bruce asks, suddenly, roughly.

Tony makes a face. “Still a jerk.”

“You should come and stay here with us. You and Jarvis. He and Alfred could be scarily competent British butlers together and we could spend all our time together.”

Tony thinks that might be the best thing he’s ever heard of, but his face falls immediately.

“I would,” he says, miserably. “But I can’t leave my mum.”

“Yeah,” Bruce says, gruffly, his voice thick. “I know what you mean.”

Tony pauses for a moment and runs his fingers through Bruce’s sweat-matted hair, like his mother does when he’s upset, and Bruce’s eyelashes flutter close, leaning into the touch.

“That feels good,” he slurs.

“I’m glad,” Tony says, gently.

“Tony, I really, really miss them. I don’t know what I’m gonna do now.”

There are a thousand different thing he can and should say now, but they feel too big and too heavy on his lips, so he just remains quiet.

Berengaria hops down from the pillow and patters across the bedsheets before hesitating. Finally, she makes her way into Tony’s hair, and it makes his heart stop in his chest when he can feel the grip of her talons in his scalp.

“Bruce,” he begins, uncertainly.

“S’okay, Tony,” Bruce mutters. “It feels good.”

Sahar nuzzles down into Tony’s skin before stretching her small body out, winding her tail around Tony’s wrist while laying her heavy, warm torso across Bruce’s side. Tony hitches in a sharp breath, feeling it right in his bones, like the sun and the moon are finally aligning for once, like that first, hungry bite into a crispy-sweet apple that settles so perfectly in his stomach.

He curls in closer.

He knows it’s wrong. Daemons shouldn’t touch other humans; it’s a piece of someone that doesn’t belong to anyone but themselves. Howard and Maria had certainly not touched Sahar; nor had Jarvis, whom he loved more than and before anything and everything else in the world.

But here, lying with Bruce in this large bed, as the world falls apart and comes together all over again, Sahar lending her own form of comfort to Bruce, while Berengaria makes a home for herself in Tony’s hair, it feels right.

* * *

Tony has never loved Howard more than in the moment when the man informs him that he’ll be attending the same boarding school that Bruce is due to attend as well.

He’s always had such a terrible time of making new friends that he’s just glad Bruce will be there, even if he’s a little quieter, a little more prone to angry outbursts after his parents’ death – Tony can’t begin to understand what he’s going through; he doesn’t even know what he’d do if he ever had to bury his parents in the ground. Or Jarvis, Jarvis would be the worst. He thinks he might die if something ever happened to Jarvis.

“Ready?” he asks Bruce, cheerfully.

“I guess,” Bruce says, half-heartedly, hefting his book bag over his shoulder.

“Come on.” Tony nudges Bruce lightly. “It might be fun.”

Bruce snorts. “Yeah, okay, tell me that again when you’re actually confident.”

Tony scowls. “Sue me for trying to make this somewhat pleasant.” He turns his back on Bruce, crossing his arms over his chest and outwardly sulking.

Bruce sighs and places a hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. It’s just… Tony, I’m not good at this school stuff, you know that. I’m just glad you’re here with me.”

“Yeah, me too,” Tony says, quietly. Finally, he huffs. “Let’s go. I want to go see the labs, if they’re anything worth bragging about.”

“You’re not going to blow it up, are you?” Bruce asks, warily.

“Stop standing in the way of scientific progress, Brucie.” Tony wags his finger, belligerently.

“Stop calling me Brucie.”

“No.”

* * *

When Tony’s 14, he leaves for MIT.

He doesn’t like it; in fact, he rages and rages until he can’t breathe anymore, but Howard isn’t having any of it; he’s a genius, after all, and he’ll be useful for Stark Industries one day, so MIT is where he’s going.

It doesn’t matter that he’s leaving Bruce. Howard thinks business acquaintances (and isn’t that the stupidest way to term what Bruce and him are) should be kept in their place and Bruce cannot be a stumbling block to his great destiny (or so Howard thinks, which is strange, considering he’s never thought anything Tony did was worthwhile by any means).

But Howard’s the boss, at least until Tony turns 18 and Howard can’t drag him back to Long Island by the hair, kicking and screaming, when he feels like his son’s committed some great, cardinal sin.

So, Tony goes to MIT.

It’s shit for the most part. He knows everything they’re going to teach him anyway. And Bruce is so many miles away in a boarding school he can’t stand, if his letters are anything to go by. They make time for themselves, of course. Howard doesn’t give a shit what he does once he’s present and enrolled at MIT, so if he makes his way up to Andover, no one has to know. Well, no one but Jarvis and Alfred, but there was no way that Bruce and Tony were ever going to hide their secret rendezvous from them.

Scarily competent British butlers rings very true.

But when they’re fifteen, Tony does something stupid.

He kisses Bruce.

He’s known for a while that he likes boys and girls and everything in between and beyond. He likes sex; he’s not a virgin, even at fifteen. Bruce is, because Tony would know if he’d been with someone, since they tell each other everything. He doesn’t even know why it happens. There’s always been something there between him and Bruce, and in the moment, it felt like some irrevocable rope pulling them in, inch by inch, until all Tony could do was give in and kiss him.

Bruce kisses back, though.

“Well,” Tony whispers, when they pull back. “That was…”

“Strange,” Bruce finishes, his ears flushed.

“Good strange, or bad strange?” Tony asks, uncertainly, a knot in his throat.

“Good strange,” Bruce says, definitively, nodding, and Tony breathes a sigh of relief. “Unless _you_ thought it was bad?”

“ _I_ kissed _you_ , remember.”

Bruce pauses. “Good point.”

“Finally.”

They turn around. Sahar and Berengaria are sitting on the bookshelf, staring down at them, unimpressed.

“We thought you two would take forever,” Berengaria complains.

Sahar nods, furiously. “We had bets on how long you’d take, and we had to keep postponing it and postponing it because neither of you would say anything.” She shakes her head. “Too much stress for a daemon.”

“Oh, shut up, you little devil spawn,” Tony retorts. “It’s not like you were any help.”

“How can I be devil spawn if I’m a physical manifestation of your literal soul?” Sahar says, smugly. “What does that say about you, huh?”

Bruce frowns. “I feel like this conversation deteriorated really quickly.”

“I agree,” Tony says, firmly, turning back to Bruce. “Can we get back to kissing please?”

Bruce laughs and draws him in, kissing every single one of his smiles off his mouth until he melts like honey.

* * *

There is, of course, one good thing about MIT and being so far away, yet so close, to Bruce.

His name is James Rhodes and he’s fucking amazing.

Tony meets James during one of their labs together, as the only other student without a partner. He’s a sleepy nineteen-year-old, to Tony’s fifteen, his head slumped over the bench with his eyes closed, when Tony joins in at the only other empty seat in the entire room.

“Is it okay if I sit here?” he asks, hesitantly.

The boy opens one eye. “Yeah, sure,” he mutters and goes right back to sleeping.

It doesn’t last long because their professor is a real hard-ass and threatens to fail the boy if he catches him sleeping one more time in his class.

“So,” the boy hums, rubbing at his eyes, while his daemon, a Canaan dog, peeks his head from the boy’s lap, staring at Tony with eerie, dark eyes. “You wanna be lab partners?”

It takes Tony longer than a moment to realise that the boy is talking to him and he’s actually being serious.

“Are you sure?” he asks, a little tentative.

“Yeah.” The boy yawns, stretching out impressive arms. “Why not?”

Tony blinks.

Huh. No one’s ever wanted to be his lab partner before, but for Bruce – the idea of a fourteen-year-old being smarter than them and vocal enough that it’s obvious is just too much for people to bear, apparently. And since Bruce isn’t here, he had just resigned himself to being alone for the semester, potentially alone for all the subjects that required group work in some way.

Until Rhodey.

So, that’s how Rhodey becomes his best friend. After Bruce, of course, but Bruce is a different sort of best friend and can’t be compared to anyone else. Rhodey is like his brother from another mother. Tony has never wanted to do any brotherly things with Bruce in a very long time, not since he understood what an erection was and why he was getting one.

Surprisingly, Bruce doesn’t like Rhodey at first. He tries to hide it, of course, because he’s a good boyfriend and he doesn’t want that to change, but Tony sees right through his charming First Son of Gotham act. Tony might be shit at reading people, but he’s always been a master at reading Bruce, and within a couple of days of Bruce visiting him down at MIT, he’s very much aware that Bruce can’t actually move beyond talking about the weather to Rhodey.

Either Rhodey’s completely oblivious to the cold shoulder he’s getting from Tony’s boyfriend and Bruce is a damn good actor, or he’s such a good bro that he doesn’t want to rock the boat with his new friend by bringing up the giant elephant in the room.

“So,” Tony exhales, throwing himself down on his mattress. “What’s with you?” he sings.

Bruce settles beside him, and long-sufferingly lets Tony curl up against his side.

He pretends like he doesn’t like it, but Tony knows better.

“Nothing. Nothing’s _with me_ ,” Bruce says, innocently, running fingers through Sahar’s fur.

Tony props himself on his elbow, looking down at Bruce with a raised eyebrow, ignoring Berengaria’s vocal cries when she’s abruptly displaced. She fluffs up her purple-green wings in protest, glowering down at him with dark eyes.

“Stop overreacting,” he says, sternly.

“Rude,” she huffs.

Bruce eyes the two of them, a little in surprise, but more in fondness. “You know, it’s strange that she’s sounding a lot like you nowadays.”

Tony preens. “Is that so, Bere? It’s ‘cause you missed me, right?”

Berengaria rolls her eyes, as much as a hummingbird can, and flings herself onto Sahar’s stomach, talons combing through her fur.

“Anyway, there is something _with you_ ,” Tony says, firmly. “You and Rhodey. What’s going on there?”

Bruce frowns. “Nothing’s going on there. He seems like a nice guy,” he says in a voice that doesn’t fool Tony one bit.

He snorts. “Oh, please, you are such a liar.”

“I’m not,” Bruce argues.

“Bruce,” Tony begins in an admonishing tone.

“Fine,” Bruce huffs. “It’s just… you made a friend.”

Tony frowns. “Is that a problem?”

“No. Of course not.” Bruce groans, burying his face in the pillow. “It’s just… now, whenever you talk, all you do is talk about him. I guess…”

“He was jealous,” Berengaria finishes for him, helpfully.

Bruce glowers at her. “Thanks, Bere.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, cheerfully.

“You were jealous of Rhodey?” Tony asks, a little bemused.

“Well, you’re always talking about him and you and what the two of you get up to here, and you call him _honeybear_ and _sour patch_. I don’t know, yeah, I guess I got jealous,” Bruce admits, grudgingly.

“Bruce,” Tony begins, softly.

“Oh, my God,” Bruce groans. “You’re going to start pretending I’m some sort of adorable teddy bear, aren’t you? I changed my mind. I’m going.”

Bruce makes to get off the bed, but Tony grips his wrist and pulls him right back so he can wrap his arms and legs around his boyfriend like an octopus.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Tony says, confidently. “You’re staying right here, with me, where you belong. And I’m not going to pretend you’re an adorable teddy bear, because you _are_ an adorable teddy bear. My teddy bear. My Brucie Bear, right?” he threatens.

“Yeah,” Bruce sighs.

“Say it.”

“Tony,” Bruce warns.

“Say it, or I’m telling Rhodey what you told me.”

“Fine,” Bruce snaps. “I’m your Brucie Bear,” he admits, shyly, an embarrassed flush to his ears.

Tony straddles him, planting his hands on Bruce’s shoulders.

“I love you,” he murmurs, leaning down and pressing his mouth against his.

Bruce runs his thumb over Tony’s cheekbone. “I love you too,” he says, in a low, rushed voice, as if he can’t quite believe he was ever capable of such a feeling.

Tony grinds down and Bruce grunts, arching up into the touch.

“You really want to do this here?” Bruce asks, breathlessly.

Tony shrugs. “Does it matter where it happens?” he pauses. “Are you okay with it happening here?” he asks, carefully.

Bruce brings himself up to a seated position. “Anywhere this happens with you is where this should happen,” he says, fiercely.

Tony runs his hands through Bruce’s dark hair and kisses over the blue of his eyes, until he presses his mouth against his. Bruce breaks away to pull his shirt off, revealing miles of smooth, defined pale skin. Tony finds the tendon in his neck and bites down. Bruce keens and grips at him, pulling him close while spluttering out an unintelligible sound. He runs his hands up and down Tony’s spine, rolling up the hem of Tony’s shirt to pull it over his head. Tony presses the slivers of his tanned, sinewy skin against Bruce’s and lets Bruce pull him back down to the bed.

Tony places a hand on Bruce’s cock, which he can feel hard and twitching with interest through the material of his jeans.

“Is this okay?” he asks, quietly.

Bruce swallows hard, staring at him with hot blue eyes. “Yeah, it feels good.”

Tony gives him a beautiful, lazy grin, and promptly unbuttons Bruce’s jeans, unzipping him and sliding a hand into his briefs. He wraps a hand around the base of Bruce’s cock and Bruce moans, rolling his hips to meet Tony’s firm, deft grip.

“Do you like it?” he says, breathlessly, with a lazy, upward stroke of Bruce’s cock, leaning down and sucking a dark bruise into his neck.

“I love it,” Bruce keens.

Tony laughs. “You better.”

He shuffles down until he’s eye-level with Bruce’s hip. He nuzzles at the soft, warm dip between Bruce’s thigh and pelvic bone, which he can see just over where his jeans and boxers have rolled down.

Resting his chin on Bruce’s thigh, he looks up at him through fine, dark eyelashes.

“I want to suck you off. Can I?” he asks, steadily.

“Fuck, Tony,” Bruce groans, slumping back. “You can do whatever the hell you want to me.”

Tony grins. “Good.”

He slowly rolls down Bruce’s jeans and boxers, throwing it off the side of his mattress, just so he can drag out the moment. He hovers just a little above Bruce’s cock, before sucking it fully into his mouth until his lips purse around the base. Bruce’s hand threads through his hair, tightening, as he starts rolling his hips forward.

He comes quickly, which Tony expected, considering Bruce has virtually no experience when it comes to sex, but he doesn’t mind at all. It just shows how much Bruce wants him, and that’s a drug he won’t ever be able to deny.

“How was that?” he rasps, his throat a little sore.

“Fuck,” is all that Bruce manages to say.

Tony’s lips twitch. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says, dryly.

“You should. That was fucking amazing,” Bruce slurs. He looks down at him, helplessly. “What about you, though?”

Tony leans down and presses their smiles together briefly. “I’m not done with you just yet, Wayne.”

He leans down, fisting Bruce’s cock until it swells up in his hand, thanking any and all higher powers for a teenage refractory period. He haphazardly pulls down his jeans, kicking it off the bed, before swiping for a bottle of lube from his bedside table. The lid comes off with a slick little noise and he doesn’t spare a second thought of how much he’s using, considering how much a turn-off it’ll be if sex suddenly becomes painful.

He patiently shows Bruce how to get him ready, how to use his fingers slow and steady until he’s a writhing mess in his lap, his cock hard and curving against his belly, leaving streaks of pre-come glinting against his skin. Bruce finally grazes against his prostate and he unravels right into it, the deep, full pressure flowing and ebbing before settling nice and easy in his bones.

“I’m ready,” he moans. “Come on, Wayne; I want your cock.”

Bruce watches in awe as Tony bears down onto his cock, deliberate and measured, until he’s settling in his lap.

“Jesus Christ,” Bruce breathes.

“Feels good, huh?” Tony sighs, rolling his hips down.

“I think I’m going to die,” Bruce mutters.

Tony laughs, the noise coming out broken. “You’ll die happy, Wayne. Besides, I’m not done with you yet.”

Tony goes slow, considering it’s Bruce’s first time and he wants this moment to last in his memory until he’s old and grey and chugging Viagra to get it up. He’s content with lazy rolls of his hips to meet Bruce’s thrusts, while his arousal grows and thickens until he’s caught in its haze. One hand of Bruce’s digs into the divots at the base of spine, while the other strokes Tony’s abdomen indolently, his thighs, watching as Tony shakes, head to foot, fucking himself down onto his cock. Tony’s hand is splayed out across Bruce’s wide shoulder, balancing himself, as he opens up for Bruce again and again, hungry and desperate, humiliated in a good way by the wet, obscene noise that’s made when he takes Bruce in right to the base.

But Tony’s a teenager too, and it doesn’t take him long to come either, with one hand on his cock, fireworks blasting behind his eyelids. He rolls off, settling on the mattress beside Bruce, panting into the sheets, sweat-damp and tired.

He pats Bruce on the pectoral.

“So, how was that?”

“Fucking amazing,” Bruce says, breathlessly, wheezing himself.

“You’re welcome.” Tony grins, blissfully.

He curls up against Bruce, running his fingers in slow circles over Bruce’s sparse chest hair.

“You promise you’ll be nicer to Rhodey?” he asks, quietly.

Bruce sighs. “Tony…”

“You have _no_ reason to be jealous, I promise,” Tony insists. “Rhodey’s just my friend. Hell, he’s the only friend I have in this place. He’s the only thing that makes being away from you marginally better.”

Bruce softens. “Is that true?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs.

“Well, then, I guess I have to like him, don’t I?”

“I love you,” Tony chooses to say in response.

Bruce grins, broadly and boyishly, and all those shadowed, painful things that formed the night his parents died fade from his eyes (Tony’s always glad to see those go). Tony runs his finger over Bruce’s cheekbone, before leading his chin on his shoulder, as Bruce’s hands settle on the base of his spine. He peers around the room, spotting Berengaria and Sahar cuddled up together in a nook on his desk.

“I don’t want to know what you were doing, but somehow I’m still curious,” Tony declares.

Bruce laughs, quietly, into his arm, running a warm hand up and down his side in a way that makes him melt inside.

If they could’ve, both Sahar and Berengaria would’ve gladly given him the finger.

* * *

Tony’s seventeen when his life starts to fall apart around him, slowly.

He has a screwdriver jammed into DUM-E’s strut when his phone rings, making him scream and jolt, falling off the bed onto the floor.

“It’s just your phone,” Sahar says, amused.

“Shit,” he groans, rubbing his head. When he looks up, DUM-E is looking down at him, curiously. “Oh, shut up, you.”

“Don’t be so mean to him, Tony,” Sahar scolds.

DUM-E pouts and wheels around the room, while Tony grabs the edge of his bed and pulls himself to his feet, reaching for his mobile and flicking open the screen.

“Hullo,” he mumbles into the phone.

“ _Master Anthony?_ ”

Tony blinks. “Alfred?” he clarifies, just a bit incredulously.

Not once, in their very many years of knowing each other, has Alfred ever reached out to Tony personally and over the phone, preferring instead to write a long letter or wait until Tony comes to visit him and Bruce at Wayne Manor during his break.

“Is everything okay?” he demands, fist thumping against the strange tightness in his chest.

Sahar, being the beautiful thing that she is, climbs onto the mattress, crawling onto his lap so that he’ll feel warm again. Absentmindedly, he begins to thread his fingers through her fur – it’s the first thing he ever learnt to do.

“ _I am… not quite sure, Master Anthony_.”

Tony doesn’t think he’s ever heard Alfred sound so tentative.

“ _I just received a phone call from the Gotham City Police Department, from one Lieutenant James Gordon_ -”

“You mean the guy that stayed with Bruce the night his parents were murdered?” Tony clarifies.

“ _The one and the same, sir. It appears that Joseph Chill will be appealing his sentence, under the condition that he reveals information about Carmine Falcone’s mob operations, with whom he shared a cell during his stay in prison_.”

The anger surges, quick and hot. “You’re joking,” he says, flatly.

“ _I am afraid not, sir_.”

“He _killed_ Mr and Mrs Wayne, and the DA’s office wants to let him walk?” Tony demands. “What the fuck is going on in that place?”

Alfred sighs. “ _I should reprimand you for your language, but alas, this has me stymied as well, sir. I haven’t the faintest idea of how I should broach the subject with Master Bruce. I was hoping that you would be able to join us in Gotham for a little while, be there when the appeal will be heard. As I understand it, as a victim of his crime, Master Bruce will be able to testify against Chill_.”

 _That’s not gonna end well,_ Tony thinks, miserably.

“Yeah, sure,” Tony says, immediately. “I’ll, uh, pack my stuff and drive down. Did you want me to tell Bruce, or did you want to handle that?”

“ _I think it might be better coming from me, if that is all right, Master Anthony_.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Tony runs his palm over his face. “It’ll definitely be better coming from you. I should be there in a couple of hours, if that’s cool.”

“ _I will make up one of the guest rooms_ ,” Alfred tells him, even if they both know that he’ll be sleeping in Bruce’s bed the whole time.

Both he and Jarvis like to ignore the fact that their charges are having sex and fair enough, you know. If they want to believe that Bruce and Tony are snow-freaking-angel virgins, after everything they’ve done for them (raised them, loved them like their own, maybe more than their own parents, at least in Jarvis’ case), well, then, Tony’s more than fucking okay with that.

“Thanks, Alfred,” he mutters. “Let me know how the conversation with Bruce goes.”

“ _Of course, Master Anthony. I will see you soon_.”

Tony finds an empty, crumpled duffle bag in the corner of his closet and packs a couple days’ worth of clothing inside, knowing that he can just buy anything he actually needs.

The door to his room opens up, and Rhodey shoulders his way inside.

“Hey, you up, man? Brought you some take-out, ‘cause I know you ain’t been feedin’ yourself.”

Tony slumps. God, he loves Rhodey. “Yeah, I’m up.” He pinches the bridge of his nose.

Rhodey’s brow furrows in concern. “You good, Tony?”

“Yeah, uh, I’m gonna need to go away for a while.”

Rhodey takes a step forward. “Is everything okay?”

Tony sighs and slumps down onto the bed, holding Sahar close to his chest. “Joe Chill’s appealing his sentence for some deal with Gotham’s DA.”

“Joe Chill… that’s the guy who killed-”

“-Thomas and Martha Wayne, yeah,” Tony finishes, wearily.

“Shit, man,” Rhodey sighs. “How’s Bruce doing?”

“I don’t know,” Tony shrugs. “His butler just called to tell me. He hasn’t told Bruce yet; he just wants to give me a heads-up. Plus, he asked me to come down. They’re gonna want Bruce to testify at the appeal, and he’s gonna need me there.”

“Fair enough.” Rhodey hesitates. “What about classes, though?”

Tony shrugs. “I’m graduating anyway. And I got some time before I gotta start my masters.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Bruce needs me, Rhodey. I can’t _not_ go.”

“Yeah,” Rhodey says, gently. “Yeah, I get you.” He reaches for Tony, pulling him into a warm hug. “Just remember that you’re just as important as Bruce, okay. You gotta take care of yourself, man. And I’m always here for you, if you need me.”

Tony buries his face in Rhodey’s shoulder. “Thanks, honeybear,” he mumbles. “What would I do without you, huh?”

“Man, your boy hears you callin’ me that and he’s gonna come chargin’ at me, and I’d hate to put him out on his arse,” Rhodey groans.

Tony laughs and it comes out wet. He curls inward, clutching at Rhodey, almost desperately. Rhodey does as he always does, just holds him tighter, like he knows Tony might fall apart if he lets go and he’s not about to let it happen.

God, he loves Rhodey.

He thinks Rhodey might be the best person he’s ever known. After Jarvis and Alfred and Bruce, of course.

“Okay, I should get going,” Tony says, roughly. “It’s still a couple of hours to Gotham.”

“Take care of yourself, Tony.”

“I will.”

Tony clutches at Rhodey for a moment, before releasing him, grabbing up his duffle bag, which Sahar is dutifully perched on.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks, worriedly, when they stumble into his car.

“No,” Tony says, wearily. “I’m really fucking worried about Bruce.”

Sahar clucks her tongue and climbs on top of him, settling on top of his fluffy hair, somehow not managing to make him topple over.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” she soothes. “Alfred will talk to Bruce. He’ll come to Gotham, where you’ll be waiting. You’ll get through this.”

“How do you know?” he hates to ask, as he settles behind the steering wheel.

Sahar’s small head nuzzles into his neck. “Because you love each other, Tony,” she says, gently. “So, everything will work out.”

“I’m still trying to figure out how a pine marten can sound so sure of herself,” Tony mutters and yelps when Sahar shamelessly bats at him with her tail.

“Behave,” she says, sternly. She pauses. “And drive, or we won’t reach Gotham before Bruce gets there.”

“So bossy,” Tony sighs.

* * *

Tony hikes the duffel bag over his shoulder, before knocking on the front door. Even after all these years, he’s never understood why there’s no security at the gate, but he imagines it would be one hell of a trek for people to wander the Palisades until they finally reached Wayne Manor.

He bounces on his feet until he finally hears footsteps on the other side of the large arch. Alfred’s mouth quirks up, pleased, when he opens the door to find Tony on the other side, which makes Tony smile in relief.

“Hi, Alfred,” Tony murmurs, reaching out and hugging him quickly.

He doesn’t care if it’s inappropriate. Alfred is family, just like Jarvis is. 

Alfred returns his hug, stiffly, clearly not used to such a show of affection. Tony understands; Bruce is hardly the most demonstrative of people, even with the guy he’s screwing.

“It is very good to see you, Master Anthony,” Alfred sighs. “Even if it is during such trying times.”

Tony shrugs. “Where else would I be?” he hesitates. “Is Bruce already here?”

Alfred shakes his head, the lines in his face tightening. “No, I’m afraid not. I spoke to him a few hours back. Honestly, he didn’t say much, but he did tell me he’d come today. He should be here soon, if you’d like to freshen up?”

“That sounds great, actually.” Tony cracks his neck. “It was a long drive down from Cambridge.”

Alfred moves aside to let him in. “I’ll take your bags, shall I?”

“No, no,” Tony reassures. “I can drop them off in Bruce’s room; it’s fine.”

Alfred glowers at him. “Master Anthony…” he begins, sternly.

Tony grimaces. It’s the same look that Jarvis gets when he dares to interfere in his’ blessed butler duties. Clearly, the two went to the same manservant school (not that anyone could class either of them as servants).

“Fine, you can take them up.” Tony pauses. “But I’m making the tea; don’t even try and get out of it,” he threatens.

Alfred sighs, amused, relenting to the compromise. “Very well.”

Tony nods, gratefully. “Come on, Sahar. You can go and lounge on Bruce’s bed; you know you love his sheets.”

Sahar nods, solemnly, and turns to Alfred; anyone else and she wouldn’t have opened her mouth, but she’s known Alfred for more than a decade now; if Bruce is family to her, then Alfred is as well.

“His sheets are very nice; much better than Tony’s.”

Tony climbs up the large staircase and rounds the corner until he’s reaching Bruce’s bedroom. Once he slips inside the door and drops his bag down, waiting for Sahar to climb onto the mattress. He sighs, taking a look around and dragging a hand over her face.

The room looks dead, with dust scattered across the furniture; it looks like a mausoleum, like no one’s lived in it for years, and knowing Bruce, he would’ve tried his damnedest to make it happen.

“Tony?”

“Hm?” Tony makes a noise and looks down at the bed where Sahar is staring up at him, concerned.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m just…” he sighs. “I’m just really fucking worried about Bruce. He isn’t answering any of my calls; I don’t even know what state he’ll be in when he gets here. It’s all just a fucking mess.”

Sahar jumps down from the bed and pads along the floor, until she’s climbing up all over him. He sinks to the ground, backed up against the door, his arms around his knees and Sahar buried in his arms.

God, he wished Bruce was here.

* * *

Tony’s curled up on the mattress, under the sheets, with Sahar lying beside him, when he jolts awake to the sound of loud, sharp voices. He groans, running a hand through his hair. He tumbles off the bed and onto his feet, Sahar following, and stumbles his way to the door, pushing it open and stepping outside.

Bruce and Alfred are storming up the stairs, already halfway up.

“I’ve prepared the master bedroom,” Alfred says, carefully.

Tony grimaces. _Bruce isn’t going to like that._

As he predicted, Bruce promptly scowls. “My old room will be fine,” he says, dismissively, as if he can’t bear to linger on the words.

“With all due respect, sir, your father is dead. Wayne Manor is _your_ house,” Alfred says, sternly.

Bruce grits his teeth. “No, Alfred, this isn’t _my_ house,” he snaps, gesturing broadly. “It’s a mausoleum. A reminder of everything I lost. And if I have my way, I’ll pull the damn thing down, brick by brick.”

Alfred rounds on Bruce and Tony doesn’t think he’s ever seen him this angry at anyone, let alone Bruce, whom he loves like a son.

“This _house_ , Master Wayne, has sheltered six generations of the Wayne family, and stood patiently by while you cavorted around private schools and colleges with no direction or gravity. As have I,” Alfred says, coldly. “As has Master Anthony.”

Bruce visibly flinches, his eyes burning, chastened.

“The Wayne family legacy is not so easily shrugged off,” Alfred says, his voice gentling. He sighs. “Master Wayne... I was at your father’s side when you were born. And at your side when he was laid to rest.”

“I know,” Bruce says, sharply, his voice catching.

“Your father was a great man. But I have every confidence that you will exceed his greatness,” Alfred says, solemnly.

“So do I,” Tony chimes in.

Bruce’s eyes swing upwards to where Tony is hanging off the banister, and his eyes light up. Tony saunters his way down until he joins Alfred and Tony. Bruce reaches for him and he goes, gladly, curling up against Bruce’s neck.

“Haven’t given up on me, yet?” he hears Bruce tell Alfred, his chest rumbling with the words.

Alfred grins. “Never.”

Bruce nods, clutching onto Tony tighter. He presses his mouth to Tony’s hairline, and Tony runs a hand up Bruce’s side, over his jacket.

“Come on,” he insists. “Shower.”

Bruce gives him a lazy grin. “You gonna join me.”

“Maybe,” Tony teases, waggling his eyebrows. “If you make it worth my while.”

Alfred clears his throat, and both boys promptly flush and pull away.

“Sorry, Alfred,” Tony murmurs, looking down at his feet and shuffling awkwardly.

“I’m sure Mr Jarvis would be staggered by your behaviour, Master Anthony,” Alfred says, sternly. “And Master Wayne, I can assure you I am quite disappointed myself.”

“Sorry, Alfred,” Bruce grimaces. “We’re, uh, just going to go up to my room, for _things_.”

“Yes,” Alfred rolls his eyes. “I’m sure. Now, off with you.”

Bruce tugs on Tony’s wrist, hefting his duffle bag over his shoulder, and pulls him along.

“Shower?” Tony tries again, once he’s sure that Alfred is out of earshot.

“Shower,” Bruce agrees.

* * *

Bruce crowds Tony against the shower wall, his chest pressed up against Tony’s back, such that Tony could hear his heartbeat against the notches of his spine.

“So, are you still trying to get kicked out of every single Ivy League college out there?” Tony teases.

Bruce laughs. “You know I can’t help myself, right?”

Tony rolls his eyes. “How did I end up the well-behaved one out of the two of us?”

Bruce shrugs, leaning down to kiss Tony’s shoulder. “Quirk of fate?” he murmurs. “You know that those tabloids are shit though, right?”

“You mean, the whole playboy thing?” Tony leans back to run his fingers through Bruce’s hair. “Well, you know that if you cheated on me, I’d feed you your own balls, right?”

“Right back at you, babe,” Bruce drawls, groping at his arse happily.

“Are you really okay with all of this?” Tony asks, quietly, splaying a hand across the cool tile, when Bruce starts nosing at his neck.

Bruce tenses, withdrawing momentarily, before sighing and slumping against him. “No,” he exhales. “No, I’m not.”

“Bruce,” Tony bites his lip. “Maybe you shouldn’t go-”

Bruce pulls away, leaving him abruptly cold and empty. Tony grimaces, ignoring the way the movement makes his chest hurt, because he’s not some fucking weakling who needs to cling to his boyfriend for scraps of attention. He turns around, curling inwards, with his arms wrapped around himself, as if he were trying to protect himself, so terribly aware of how naked he is.

In what universe would he be protecting himself from Bruce, of all people?

Bruce gives him a cold look, like he can’t believe Tony doesn’t understand this fundamental piece of him.

Well, it isn’t his fault, not really. When you’re in love with Bruce Wayne, you have to be content with pieces and crumbles, or you get nothing.

“Someone at this _proceeding_ should stand for my parents.”

“Bruce,” Tony takes a step forward, the water momentarily spilling over his eyes. “We all loved your parents, Bruce. Chill is a cunt, and he deserves to hang for what he did, but I don’t want to lose _you_ in the process.”

“Tony, this man _killed_ my parents. I cannot let that pass.”

Bruce abruptly shuts the water off, without another word to Tony, and steps out of shower stall, leaving Tony wet and cold and feeling like he did something incredibly wrong and like he should feel ashamed of something, of _himself_ , he doesn’t know. He rubs over his face, sluicing the water from his skin before his eyes start to sting. He steps out of the shower and grabs a spare towel, patting himself down in a hurry, ignoring the way his eyes don’t stay dry.

“You ready?” he calls out, his voice dragging like a rasping chain, as he enters the bedroom. “Because if you’re serious about this, we need to be at the courthouse soon.”

Bruce already has his shirt buttoned. “Yeah, I’m done. I’ll wait for you, downstairs,” he says, briskly, and promptly leaves the room.

Berengaria shoots Tony a concerned look, unbearably soft, before fluttering off in Bruce’s direction.

He doesn’t blame her. Where else would she go, what else would she do, after all?

Sahar, on the other hand, pads along the floor and climbs up the length of his body until she’s settling down on his shoulder.

“Is everything okay?” she asks, worriedly, nuzzling into his neck.

“No,” he says, almost as if he’s surprised, which is stupid, because he should’ve fucking known this would turn out like shit. “I don’t think it is. I don’t think _he_ is.”

“We could talk to him,” Sahar insists, because she’s loyal and she hates seeing anything remotely resembling pain in his eyes. “Make him understand why this isn’t such a good idea.”

“No, I tried already. It didn’t do much good,” he mutters.

“So, what do we do now?”

“I guess we just wait and see what happens. I don’t think there’s anything else left to do. Bruce’s made his decision.”

* * *

Tony sits in quiet dignity in the courtroom, eyeing the lawyers and the panel of five and the rest of the people gathered in these four walls to witness this fucking sham of an appeal for a man who gunned down two good people in front of their eight-year-old son for shits and giggles. He resists the urge to tap his foot like a child, shake his leg, even, because he hates sitting still and he hates being quiet, but Bruce needs him to be, so that’s what he’ll be.

“Given the exemplary prison record of Mr. Chill, the fourteen years already served and his extraordinary level of cooperation with one of this office’s most important investigations... we strongly endorse Mr. Chill’s petition for early release.” the District Attorney says, grandly, in front of the panel.

 _You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,_ Tony thinks, disgusted.

Beside him, Bruce is tense like a taut piano wire. Berengaria tries to give him as much comfort as she possibly can, but Tony doesn’t think it’s working.

He’s just grateful for Sahar.

The Chairman looks down at his paperwork. “I gather a member of the Wayne family is here today.”

At this, Chill reacts, jolting in his seat in the witness stand, staring at Bruce like he’s a ghost.

“Does he have anything to say?” the Chairman prompts.

Chill looks away in either discomfort or shame, noticing Bruce’s dark gaze trained on him, like he could lunge across this courtroom and slit his throat in front of everyone.

Tony prays that it’s shame.

Bruce slides to his feet and Tony starts holding his breath. But Bruce doesn’t say anything; instead, he storms out of the courtroom, with all eyes on him.

Tony slips out as well, but fails to find Bruce on the other side of the double doors, the large open space filled with a great deal of people but for Bruce.

“Where is he?” Sahar asks, nervously, peeking her head over Tony’s hair.

“I don’t know,” he says, frustrated. “Can you see him anywhere?”

“No, I can’t.”

Finally, he finds him storming back through the entrance to the courtroom, his hands shoved into his pockets, his face shuttered off. Berengaria is aflutter, her wings messy, her entire expression flustered.

“What’s wrong?” Tony asks, worriedly, hurrying over to him, looking up at Berengaria.

Bruce shakes his head, tersely. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.” He shoots Berengaria a warning look (at least that’s what Tony takes it to be).

Berengaria huffs. “Yeah. Nothing’s wrong,” she says, grudgingly.

Tony narrows his eyes. “Like hell. Like hell nothing’s wrong.”

Anything that Bruce would’ve said to cover his surly mood and anything Tony would’ve said to call him out on his shit ebbs away when the press start screaming at something going on behind them.

Tony turns around, to see two police officers escorting Chill out of the courtroom, while the press surge around them like a swarm of locusts.

“Chill, any words for the Wayne family?”

Child, head down, presses on, as the police officers lead him away. Bruce shoves past Tony and starts stalking towards Chill, like a man hell-bent on a mission.

Tony’s hackles rise.

One of the reporters recognises Bruce. “It’s Bruce Wayne!”

The reporters clear a path, eagerly awaiting the confrontation between Chill and his greatest victim, except for one.

A blonde woman steps between them, though, young and pretty like a newscaster.

Bruce’s hands twitch at his side and for a moment, Tony fears that he’s going to deck Chill, right in front of everyone, in front of all these reporters and police officers and lawyers, and that would be the biggest clusterfuck ever.

“Falcone says hi!” the blonde reporter says, snidely, and there’s a loud gunshot and prompt screaming.

Bruce stops in his tracks, while reporters dive for cover, thinking they’re about to be next, and police officers jump on top of the reporter, seizing the gun from her. Tony hurtles forward, grabbing Bruce by the scruff of his jacket and yanking him away from the scene, which he sees with brutal clarity in that moment.

Joe Chill lies on the linoleum floor of the courthouse, with a blooming red flower of blood growing on the front of his shirt, and takes his final, wet, gurgling breath, as he dies.

Tony remembers Mr and Mrs Wayne, how Mr Wayne used to ruffle his hair and smile down at him so warmly, how Mrs Wayne kissed him on the forehead and smoothed back his hair when she tucked him in at night, and thinks about how they must’ve died in that alley and remembers the savage and haunted look in Bruce’s eyes since the day of the funeral, and thinks _good_ viciously.

Chill deserved everything he got.

“Come on, Bruce,” he urges. “Let’s go. We don’t need to see this.”

Bruce shrugs him off.

It hurts.

“I do,” he says, fiercely.

“Bruce,” Tony says, earnestly. “He’s already dead, Bruce. We should go.”

Somehow, Bruce caves and lets Tony drag him away from the utter clusterfuck Chill’s appeal has become. He finds their car and shoves a hollowed-out Bruce into the passenger seat. He gets into the driver’s seat and pulls out of the parking lot, eyeing Bruce with concern, who sits quietly in his seat, hands in his lap, staring emptily at the road stretching in front of him.

“Are you okay?” he asks, gently.

Bruce’s brow furrows. “All these years I wanted to kill him. Now he’s gone. Now I can’t.”

Tony swallows hard. “You don’t mean that,” he says, weakly.

He’s lying to himself; he knows that.

“What if I do, Tony?” Bruce demands, bitterly. “Chill killed my parents. They deserved justice.”

Tony pauses. “I’m not denying that,” he says, carefully. “But you’re talking about vengeance and murder, and it’s illegal.”

“Who gives a shit?” Bruce snaps, glowering at him. “The system is fucking broken, Tony. I was never going to get justice through the fucking system.”

“Maybe so,” Tony concedes. “But it’s the only system we’ve got. And the second we go around getting our own justice, society falls apart. Is that what you want? You want to see the good people in our world become the ones we’re trying to stop?”

“I’m not one of your ‘good’ people, Tony,” Bruce says, quietly.

“Since when?” Tony demands, like it’s a joke.

Bruce grits his teeth, looking out of the window as he pulls up the sleeve of his expensive fleece coat, revealing a small handgun, one that Tony has never seen before, even if it’s clearly Stark-issued.

“I was going to kill him myself,” Bruce confesses.

Tony’s heart stops in his chest for a long, terrible second, before it erupts in haze of red.

“You fucking-”

He pulls over to the curb, sharply twisting the steering wheel, and reaches out, snatching the gun from him and disassembling it in his deft hands, before throwing the various parts out the open window.

All he could think about was the police dragging Bruce away from Chill’s dead body and throwing him behind bars.

It would’ve been so easy for him to leave Tony, and he wouldn’t have even thought twice, and the only reason it didn’t happen was because that reporter got there first and not because Bruce realised exactly what kind of shitty thing he’d be doing in that moment.

He runs his hand through his hair and tugs until the sharp sting brings him back to the present.

“Get out of my car,” he says, slowly, in a cold tone that makes sense.

Bruce stares at him like a xenomorph literally chewed its way out of his chest. “What?”

Berengaria remains silent, almost accepting, her tiny head tilted down, like she knows exactly why he’s doing this, and even if she hates it, she understands.

It makes his heart hurt.

_Sorry, Bere._

“Get out of my car.”

“Tony,” Bruce begins to soothe.

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose. “Bruce, I can’t see or talk to you right now. Please, get the fuck out of my car.”

“Tony,” Bruce tries again.

“ _Now_ , Bruce,” Tony says, sharply, just inches away from barking at him.

“Fine,” Bruce snaps, open the car door with a sharp sound and sliding out of it.

He closes the door with a loud, shrill sound, glowering down at him.

“Come on, Tony. You’re not actually going to leave me here,” he insists.

Tony snorts. “Just fucking try me.”

He pulls the car into gear and leaves him standing there, before Bruce can see how much he’s hurt him.

He doesn’t have the bandwidth to be anything more than angry right now.

* * *

He’s scribbling down an equation for a new algorithm he’s trying out when his phone rings, shrilly, making him jolt.

He has to remember to change that ringer to an acceptable volume, or his cardiac state isn’t going to be very good once he hits his thirties.

He scrambles for his phone, Sahar quickly pushing it into his hand out of fond exasperation more than anything else, and he answers the call before the caller decides to hang up.

“Hello?” he asks, roughly.

“Master Anthony?”

“Alfred?” Tony perks up. “Is everything okay?”

This is feeling a whole lot like déjà vu.

“Yes, of course; I was just curious as to whether Master Wayne intends to return to Princeton soon. The administration there has been questioning me as to his whereabouts.”

“Oh, uh,” Tony rubs his hands across his eyes. “He’s not here, Alfred. I haven’t seen him since Chill’s trial, actually.”

 _Since I left him on the side of the road and drove off because I was pissed_ , he amends in his head.

“Ah,” Alfred’s surprise is visible. “I see. I’m afraid I haven’t seen Master Wayne since the two of you left for Chill’s trial.”

“What?” Tony exclaims, jack-knifing up. “That was like over a week ago.”

“I am aware,” Alfred says, mournfully.

“Do you think… do you think he’s okay?” Tony swallows hard against the swooping crash in his stomach. “I mean, after Chill’s trial and death…” he trails off, not wanting to give reality to the words that he can’t seem to forget.

Alfred sighs. “I don’t know, Master Anthony. I suppose we’ll have to wait and see if we hear from him. Will you keep in touch, let me know if he contacts you?”

“Of course,” Tony says, quickly. “And the same for you. Alfred…” he hesitates, before his chest caves in under the weight of his guilt. “Alfred, we got into a fight after the trial, after Chill was murdered. He brought a gun with him, Alfred, and I just got so angry.” He shakes his head. “I left him by the side of the road, and I haven’t heard from or seen him since then. Fuck, I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have left him there,” he says, roughly.

“Master Anthony,” Alfred begins, gently. “It may be premature to concern yourself with these thoughts so early on in the piece. Perhaps we should give it some time. I would not dwell on such things.”

Tony nods, shakily. “Maybe you’re right,” he says, subdued.

_I hope you’re right._

“I will speak to you later, Master Anthony. Please inform me if you learn anything as to Master Wayne’s whereabouts.”

“Of course,” Tony rumbles, letting himself collapse back onto his pillow.

“Very well. I hope to see you soon, Master Anthony.”

“You too, Alfred.”

He hangs up the phone and lets it fall onto the mattress. He grunts when Sahar climbs on top of him and makes her little nest on his belly. Her paws reach for his face.

“What’s wrong?” she demands.

She hates being left out of the loop.

“It’s Bruce,” he explains, wearily. “He’s not… no one’s heard from him since Chill’s trial, since I dropped him off by the side of the road. Shit, Sahar,” he moans. “Why did I just leave him there?”

“Oh, Tony.” Sahar reaches up to splay her paws out on his cheek. “You don’t know what happened. He could be fine. Maybe he’s just hiding out, sulking somewhere. It’s Bruce. You know how he gets.”

“I don’t know.” Tony shakes his head, hand covering his stomach in an attempt to smother the swooping sensation of dread. “I just… I have a bad feeling about this.”

* * *

His phone rings.

“Alfred?” Tony’s voice is soft with fear. “Did you hear something?”

There’s a telling pause on the other end of the line.

“Alfred?” Tony swallows hard. “Is everything okay?” The dread crashes into his stomach. “Oh, my God, is he dead? Is that why you’re calling me? To tell me he’s dead and they found his body? Oh, my God. Oh, my God. _Oh, my God_.”

His lungs aren’t working.

There’s white noise roaring in his ears.

“Master Anthony? _Master Anthony_?”

Sound returns with a bang.

“Huh?”

“He’s alive, Master Anthony,” Alfred cautions. “Please, breathe.”

Just for that, Tony takes a deep breath.

The world settles around him. The air is cool in his room. The mattress is soft and slightly sweaty underneath him and Sahar is a heavy weight in his lap, her paws pressed to his cheek, grounding him.

“Okay,” he rasps. “I’m breathing.” He runs a hand through his hair. “He’s alive?”

“He’s alive,” Alfred agrees.

“How do you know? Did you find him? Did he contact you? Is he hurt? Shit, is he in a hospital?” Tony demands in a flurry of sentences.

“He contacted me,” Alfred explains, in a firm, slow voice. “He wrote me a letter. He said he’s gone away, and he might be gone for a while. He doesn’t know when he’s going to come back. Apparently, there are some things he just needs to figure out, on his own.”

“ _Oh,_ ” comes out of Tony like a heavy stone.

“Master Anthony…”

“I get it,” Tony murmurs.

He doesn’t.

“Um, Alfred, sorry about this, but there’s someone at my door. I need to go, but I’ll, uh, call you soon, okay? Thanks for letting me know.”

 “Of course, Master Anthony.” Alfred visibly hesitates (Tony closes his eyes; God help him if Alfred feels _sorry_ for him, the pathetic, clinging little weakling that Bruce Wayne left behind because he was done with him). “You may call me whenever you’d like.”

“Yeah, thanks, Alfred. Bye.”

Tony switches off the phone and lifts up the sheets, curling underneath them. Sahar goes with him, settling solid against his stomach. Thankfully, she doesn’t say a word – she knows it wouldn’t help.

_At least I won’t be dreaming of going to the morgue to identify his corpse._

It’s a weak comfort, because the reality is much worse than what he imagined, even if it’s the most selfish thing he’s ever considered and he should feel like a piece of shit for even wishing such a thing, but he can’t seem to rid himself of the thought.

If Bruce had died, like he thought, well, at least he would’ve died loving him.

Bruce is alive, though, but Tony doesn’t know if he loves him anymore.

* * *

Time passes, and no one hears from Bruce.

Maybe Alfred does, but Tony doesn’t know about it and doesn’t bother to find out – he thinks maybe Alfred thinks it a mercy to hide it from him, but knowing Bruce, it’s just as likely that there’s nothing.

He puts it out of his head.

It hurts; it gives him nightmares; it makes him feel like shit and sometimes he can’t get out of bed because the world feels too heavy, but he can’t linger on it.

He moves on, as best as he could.

Sahar is a glaring reminder of everything that once was but no longer is, miserable and furious in her own right that these two beings she loved so much had just packed their bags and walked away without even a moment’s consideration for the people they’re leaving behind.

He finishes up all his degrees, all his masters and PhDs (even he thinks seven PhDs is a bit of an overkill, but he needs the distraction and his father doesn’t care).

When he’s 21, his parents die in a car crash.

Jarvis comes for him while he’s sleeping in his room, the one that still has Captain America posters tacked to the wall and a Bucky Bear neatly positioned on top of his pillows. He stands in his doorway with the most careful and weighty look Tony has ever seen on the man, his face pale and drawn, and tells him the news, about how his father got drunk and wrapped his car around a tree, with his mother in the passenger seat.

Jarvis comes with him to the morgue, to identify the bodies.

Obie wanted to come along, but this is for family and while Tony loves Obie a lot, Obie isn’t family, not really.

His father’s skull is smashed in and there’s blood splattered all over his face that they haven’t cleaned up yet. His mother looks peaceful, if pale and numb, her eyes still open and blank, and he can only look at her for a moment before he’s running out of the cold little chamber and throwing up his stomach lining in a sour little puddle that mixes in with tears.

The funeral is everything an American hero like his father, who was a great Allies hero, who helped make Captain America and _fought_ with the man, could’ve imagined.

Military men line up by the dozen and give their condolences, giving him some huge spiel about how his father _was a great man_ , _he did so much for his country_ and _he’ll be missed_.

Aunt Peggy shows up, with Uncle Daniel, her face drawn and devoid of her trademark redder-than-wine lipstick. She clutches him close and he breathes in her perfume and barely resists the urge to start crying (he’s the king of an empire now, and kings don’t cry).

She kisses him on the forehead, calls him _ducky_ like he’s still five and holds his hand through the whole service, while Jarvis and Rhodey hold his bridges down on the other side.

Alfred is there, somewhere to the back.

Tony doesn’t really talk to him much; he’s not talking to _anyone_ , but he appreciates it all the same when Alfred approaches him with a weathered, kind smile and claps his shoulder, promising everything’s going to alright.

He wonders if this is what everyone said to Bruce.

It didn’t work then, and it isn’t working now.

No one talks about his mother. No one talks about Maria Cerra, the Argentinian geneticist whom Howard Stark fell in love with, not for her exceedingly good looks, but for her brilliant mind. Maria left behind no family but for her now orphaned son and a few friends in Jarvis and Peggy, and they’re the only ones who will ever mourn her.

It isn’t fair, the life and the death the woman was dealt, but it’s a fact now.

Tony hates it. He hates that the only semi-decent parent he had will only ever be thought of as an afterthought in Howard Stark’s fucking biography, but there’s nothing he can do about it, so he just folds his hands, clenches hard until he can see the dark lines of his veins and hopes he doesn’t burst apart like pomegranate seeds under a rough grip.

So, he watches as they lower his parents whom he loved very much down into the fresh, damp earth, while people in the seats sob for a man and woman they didn’t even know, couldn’t have even begun to know, and even with Sahar in his lap, even with his fingers dragging through her fur, he thinks a part of him dies that day.

* * *

The worst day of his life comes when the police show up at his door, solemn, with their caps folded against their laps.

“We’re sorry for your loss, Mr Stark.”

Jarvis is dead, shot down in an alley because some druggie needed another fix and he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

What a fucked-up end to such an amazing man.

Tony thinks he hates the world the most on this day, this day when he goes to the morgue and touches Jarvis’ face, feels his cold, waxy skin under his fingertips, his eyes closed, pale and numb and dead.

Tony will never see him again, this brilliant man who loved him more than his own father could have.

The funeral comes and goes in a haze of _something_. People are there, much fewer than his parents’, of course: Aunt Peggy, Uncle Daniel, Aunt Angie, Sharon, Jack Thompson, Rose Roberts, Aloysius Samberly – names that Tony is vaguely aware of but doesn’t really care to entertain on this day, when Tony’s just buried the last person he had really called his family.

Alfred comes last and sits with him the whole time, a heavy, weathered hand on his shoulder, the loss of Jarvis lingering between them – Rhodey is lovely and all, and Tony is terribly grateful for his presence, but Alfred knew Jarvis, had shared so many parts of his life with Jarvis, the formidable duty of raising these two broken, starving boys and turning them into good, decent men. 

Once the service is over, Alfred takes him back to the mansion, gets him settled on the couch with a finger of scotch, his head lolling across the back.

Tony had wanted to crawl into the ground beside Jarvis’ corpse and never come back up again.

He doesn’t know if he’s capable of living without Jarvis.

“They’re all gone,” he says, his voice coming out distorted and thin, as he lazily watches, somewhat unaware, Alfred tidy up.

Alfred stills in his endeavour and turns to look at him. His footsteps are quiet as he takes a seat beside Tony, carefully.

“They all left me.”

Bruce, his mother, his father, and now, Jarvis.

But Bruce had left willingly, hadn’t thought him worth staying for, like he was just some warm body to fuck and say sweet things to and fool, and he thinks that hurts the most.

“Master Anthony, I am certain if they had any choice in the matter, they would not have chosen to leave you,” Alfred soothes.

At least where Bruce is concerned, they both know Alfred is lying.

“They all left me,” he repeats, dully. “Why did they leave me, Alfred?”

“Master Anthony…” Alfred trails off, but abruptly falls silent and looks down at his lap, his expression shuttering off into that typical British stoicism that makes him remember Jarvis in agonising technicolour.

His chest hurts.

For the first time since Tony has known him, Alfred is completely lost for words.

It’s okay, though, because Tony already knows the truth. Tony knows why they left him.

It took him a while to realise, but it’s all very clear now.

Tony simply isn’t worth staying for.


End file.
